Chapter 1
Morgan’s POV
“The suspect is on the move. All units pursue.”
I swipe away the sweat from my neck before grabbing my gear. Three years of doing fieldwork at the FBI never made the job any less stressful. We had been pursuing a high profile string of robberies since the start of the month, and the prospect of finally ending the month-long chase erased any anxieties I felt about the mission. As I load my handgun, my partner, Agent Smith, waits by the door of the van, one hand on the door handle impatiently waiting to kickstart the chase.
“Let’s finally get this guy,” he smirks.
Popping the magazine back into the pistol, I nod. I wait for his cue. Following a sharp exhale, we burst through the steel van doors. The wind cools my sweaty scalp as we rush down 7th Street, in the direction the suspect was reported to be heading.
The time is 5:00 p.m. Rush hour is alive and kicking as we slide by huge crowds of ordinary people who have no clue of the high intensity pursuit happening just before their eyes. We are looking for a 5’8 male figure dressed in all black. Suspect is assumed to be armed and dangerous, and we have complete permission to kill. I hope it does not come to that though. I would much prefer to take this guy into questioning.
As I run I think about what drives people to commit the horrendous crimes that they do. What drove our suspect to kill and steal? I feel a rush of excitement from the mere thought of interacting with the individual. I remember the debriefing from merely 30 minutes ago. The suspect murdered a family near 5th street and somehow escaped the police. Reports are not sure how he escaped, but there were sightings of a similarly dressed individual.
With my pistol cocked high we approach a fork in the road that splits into two alleyways. Smith approaches me.
“Morgan, I think we’re gonna need to split up,” he says with a chill in his voice.
I nod. “Yeah, I go left and you go right? This shouldn’t take too long.”
Agent Smith takes a large gulp and nods, holding his gun higher than before to ready himself.
“Yeah, no time to lose. Let’s go pronto!”
We dash in our respective locations, on the hunt for this deranged criminal. I weave through the crowd, bumping against sweaty bodies in the late afternoon heat. As I run further from the busy intersection, the horde of working people thin. The running becomes easier, but the subsiding crowd sends an ominous chill up my back. Every 10 seconds, I pass by a new alleyway that has the same eerie promise as the last. The fatigue is beginning to dawn on my body, and I almost miss it.
The dark figure in the alley. That’s him. As I backtrack to the alleyway, I notice a man that fits the description. He looks about 5’8 and he wears black pants with a black hoodie. His hood covers his face.
“Hands up!” I shout. “I have permission to shoot if necessary! You are a national security risk and a threat to others.”
He does not hesitate to run. The hooded man bursts into a full sprint, surprisingly fast for your average criminal. I catch up to him before he has the chance to accelerate his pace. He dances around obstacles of trash and throws random objects my way to slow me down. There’s no use. He doesn’t know that I have trained years for situations just like this. He throws a garbage bin my way but I smoothly vault over it. There isn’t much he can do to slow me down.
“There is nowhere to escape! If you keep running you’ll just make it worse,” I command him as I run.
He isn’t listening. We approach a fence and he instinctively hops over it. I climb and vault over it in quick reaction to stay on him. As the distance between us closes, I decide to turn off the safety of my gun. I won’t tell him that I’m going to shoot him. I aim my pistol towards his right leg and fire.
I missed it. The shot ricochets into oblivion as we continue to run. For the first time in a while, the strange man opens his mouth.
“You’re gonna fucking kill me! Eat shit!”
He quickly turns around, revealing a unique looking gun. It is reminiscent of a Smith & Wesson, but I can’t tell. I shoot another shot and this time, it hits him in the leg. Yes! But my moment of victory is short-lived. Yelling in pain, the man instinctively shoots 2 bullets towards me. All at once, I feel a nothingness in my chest, and then a sharp, sweltering pain.
I collapse on the ground. I can’t comprehend what is happening. As my vision goes blurry, I catch a slow glimpse of the black figure fade in and out. Every time my eyes creak open, the shadow is further away from my line of sight. Eventually it’s gone, and I focus what little energy I have left on shouting for help.
“Smith! Smith! Anyone, please, anyone…”
I can’t tell where the bullets hit me. The excruciating pain is everywhere. Every push I make with my body to call for help is followed by a wave of warm exhaustion, like struggling to stay afloat in the sea. I give in and close my eyes, embracing the dark slumber.
Agnes’ POV
“Good heavens, what do I do oh what do I do.” I pace around the room, lost in my troubled thoughts.
Our Reverend Mother has ordered me to sweep the floors and clean the cupboards, but it is just so hard to stay focused. I simply do not know what to do without Margaret. Sweet sister, she meant the world to me. All I can think about is her sweet smile - that innocent, adorable smile that was taken away from me with no explanation and no warning.
“And she wants me to clean, how preposterous!”
Absolutely ridiculous. I am grieving for the good Lord’s sake. With my broom in hand, I continue to sweep the floors. The task is boring to say the least, but it must be done. The Lord is great after all, for He has given me a place to stay and someone to truly believe in. A greater goal of reaching the Holy Land for after all is said and done. I hope Margaret is in that holy land now. She had the purest of souls, the warmest of hearts, and the tenderest of any character there ever was.
I suppose I should put it past me. It has been a week, and my allotted grieving time is over. The floor looks immaculate. I see not one cobweb nor a spider, and not one spot of dust! I would say I am too good at the task assigned. I proceed to the basement to continue my cleaning duties.
“Ah the basement, my lovely home away from home,” I say as I walk down the loud stairs. I love talking to myself when I am alone in the church. It gets awfully quiet and the sound of my voice soothes me.
I begin sweeping away at the numerous cobwebs. It is quite unsanitary, but that is what I am here for. Boredom breeds creativity, as I create a game out of the sweeping. It is simple. I sweep twice to the left and then twice to the right, forcing myself to imagine a cute little dance with the broom. I pretend he is a wonderful dancing partner as we tango. Outside of church, women are always dancing, having the time of their lives. The so-called “flappers” of today are quite the breed, but often unholy. Lord knows what those women do after their long nights of dancing. My broom, however, is incapable of sin.
As I sweep the floor I catch a glimpse at a strange book lying on the floor.
I pick it up and blow a gust of air at its dusty surface. “What on earth is this?” I ask myself. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale, or maybe it is an ancient piece of the church.”
I look at the cover. It does not look godly at all. The cover of the book looks celestial. It is hard and dark, with specs of light that glow like stars. I stare at the cover, fascinated by the artsmanship that went into crafting such a tome. I open the contents of the book to find peculiar drawings with what appear to be titles. The first title reads ‘Conjuring’ and it holds a brief description underneath.
Create anew, and change the very world that you reside in. Tempus itinerantur.
Underneath the cryptic words are a picture of a person seemingly praying, and beside it, a person bathed in a holy light seemingly appearing. Could this be magic? Some kind of demonic trick that a prankster left here? I cannot read the words that come after conjuring, but I know that creating new forms of life is impossible without a man and a woman.
I drop the book and start to tear up a little. What am I doing with my life? Finding toy books in the church while Margaret is gone. A pity is what I am. I look at the book sorrowfully, and an idea stirs within me. If, indeed, this book contained dark magic, what if it could conjure my sister? Or at least her soul? Would that be too much to ask?
Of course, I do not have serious faith that the book could contain such magic. But the sorrow in my heart and the longing for any kind of hope compels me to give the book a try. I would be a bad sister if I did not, at the very least, play along. I open the book to the Conjuring page and read the instructions.
“Rosemary, candles, soap, and wind chimes,” I repeat as I read the book instructions.
The book explains that most of its power comes from within. I assume that implies the book itself? I grab six candles and spread them out across the floor to form a perfect circle. The rosemary is placed in between each candle to solidify that I am in the circle. It is quite pleasant smelling the rosemary. I take large whiffs of the scent as I light each of the six candles. Once finished, I wash my face with soap and then scrub the soap on the floor. How unsanitary! Finally, I set up the windchimes around the circle. The symmetry is a bit off, but it should do.
The final step is to imagine my loved one and let the astral connection conjure the soul of my sister. I have very little faith in magic tricks, but it would be the ultimate sin to not make an effort to bring back my sister. I think about Margaret. Her innocent and sweet smile. Her carefree attitude and the way she showed respect for everyone. It truly is not fair. Not in the slightest. I try harder to think of her but nothing is happening. There is no flash of light, no sign that Margaret nor her soul will grace me with their presence.
“Rubbish!” I shout. I hear it echo throughout the church.
I should have known that these magic tricks would not have worked. I look at the book in disdain. What a horrible piece of work. An absolute waste of time.
“Tempus itinerantur,” I say while chuckling.
Suddenly, a large flash of light rushes through the room. The rosemaries are on fire and the wind chimes blast in full force. The flames from the candles shoot towards the ceiling of the basement. All I see is light and flame, and the world no longer exists in a normal capacity. I doubted the magic, and it proved me wrong. The flash of light grows brighter, forcing me to squint. Gone as fast as it came, the light dissipates and the flames die out. What lies in front of me is not Margaret, nor is it some kind of soul that is the essence of Margaret. Instead, a man lies in front of me, dressed in the strangest clothing.
